Page 7 of Degrading Her

What is this?I had asked.

My father showed me a revolver with a blue design curled like veins around the grip.

You want the farm, don’t you, Sawyer?he had asked.

Wilder was the oldest son; he was more likely to get the leadership position. But I wanted itmorethan him. I wanted to prove myself. I was younger, but I was capable.

Yes,I said.

You like games, too, right, my son?my father asked, his tone oddly warm. He took out two dice, red with silver dots, black edges around each corner.An even total, and he walks away. But odd?My father grinned, his canines gleaming in the dim fluorescent lights.You take my gun and pull the trigger.

He rolled the dice, then totaled the numbers.

Odd,he said.

He pocketed one dice, then rolled the other.Now, for the number of bullets.I leaned over to see what number he had rolled, but he stowed the dice before I could see it. He turned his back to me, loading the gun’s chamber. The cylinder spun with a rollingclick-click-click, falling into place. He aimed the gun at my brother and I froze in place.

I had watched my father before. I knew what he was capable of.

Then he stepped toward me, his shoes cracking on the cement.

Are you willing to do anything for the farm?my father asked.To kill? To die?I didn’t say a word, and he balled his fist.Because I didn’t raise any damned coward for a son!He smacked me in the chest and I landed by Wilder’s feet. The wind knocked out of me and I heaved.

After I caught my breath, I stood up, straightening my chest, ready for the next blow.

You shoot that gun,he bellowed,or so help me, I will shove you into that incinerator alive.

I locked eyes with my brother. He gave a slight nod, knowing exactly the kind of situation I was in.

If I went through with it, my brother might die. And if I didn’t go through with it, I would die.

Do it,Wilder said.

I didn’t ask you a question,my father howled at him. He back-handed Wilder, but my brother stayed silent.Martyrs,my father muttered.They always die first.

I knew what to do.

Pull back the hammer.

Line the sights. Aim. Fire.

But screw that.

I flipped around, aiming at my father’s head. His eyeswidened, but the gun clicked and nothing happened. Wilder lurched forward, trying to help protect me, but the men held him in place. My father took a giant step and bashed his arm into mine as I shot again, a bullet hitting the wall. My father wrenched the gun from my grip.

I didn’t think you had it in you,he said.

He shoved me into the ground, beating into my head until blood pounded in my ears and my face was so swollen, I could barely see. Then he put the gun in my hand, forcing me to my feet, making me face my brother. He choked me, blood rushing to my face, and my finger slipped, releasing the trigger, but the gun simply clicked. No bullet. My father dropped his hold on me, grabbing the gun, then growled.

He put the barrel to my temple, letting it click and click and click and click until it dawned on him. His eyes lit up with amusement.

He had rolled a one on his dice, then. One bullet.

There were no bullets left.

You’re lucky,he said. My body quivered, weak from adrenaline. He threw the dice at my feet, and I imagined right then, that he was rolling for his own life.

Odd.

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